getting creamed by the rest of the Norse, we could come back here to Midgard only to have the comic book Thor smite the hell out of us like the naughty varlets we are. Did you think about that?”
Leif looked utterly bewildered. “Thor has a comic book?”
“Yeah, how did you miss this? There’s a movie about him based on the comic too. He’s a heroic kind of guy here in the States, not nearly so much of a dick as the original. He’ll ignore you unless you draw attention to yourself, and storming Asgard will probably get his attention pretty fast.”
“Hmm. Say that I can put together a coalition of beings willing to participate in the physical assault on Asgard and accompany us back to Midgard. Could I count on your aid in such a scenario?”
I slowly shook my head. “No, Leif, I’m sorry. One reason I’m still alive is that I’ve never gone toe-to-toe with a thunder god. It’s a good survival strategy, and I’m going to stick with it. But if you’re going to do something like that, I recommend avoiding Loki. He’ll pretend to be on your side, but he’ll spill his guts to Odin first chance he gets, and then you’ll have that entire pantheon coming after you with a wooden stake.”
“That might be preferable to me, at this point, than continuing to coexist with him. I want revenge.”
“Revenge for what, exactly?” Normally I don’t pry into vampiric psychology, because it’s so predictable: The only things they tend to get exercised about are power and territory. They enjoy being asked questions, though, so that they can ignore you and appear mysterious when they don’t answer.
Leif never got the chance to answer me, though he looked ready enough to do so for a half second. As he opened his mouth to speak, his eyes flicked down to the base of my throat where my cold iron amulet rested, just as I began to feel the space between my clavicles heat up-even burn.
“Um,” Leif said in perhaps his most inarticulate moment ever, “why is your amulet glowing?”
I felt the heat surge like mercury on an August morning, sweat popped out on my scalp, and the sickening sound of sizzling in my ears was a little piece of me frying like bacon. And even though I instinctively wanted to peel off the necklace and chuck it onto the lawn, I fought back the urge, because the smoldering lump of cold iron-the antithesis of magic-was the only thing keeping me alive.
“I’m under magical attack!” I hissed through clenched teeth as I clutched the chair arms, white-knuckled and concentrating on blocking the pain. I wasn’t working on that only to silence my screaming nerves; if I let the pain get to me, I was finished. Pain is the fastest way to stir up the reptilian brain, and once awakened, it tends to shut off the higher functions of the cerebral cortex, leaving one witless and unable to function beyond the instinctive fight-or-flight level-and that would have left me unable to communicate coherently and connect the dots for Leif, in case he was missing out on the salient point: “Someone’s trying to kill me!”
Chapter 2
Leif’s fangs popped out and he launched himself from his chair to the edge of my front lawn, scanning the darkness for assailants with all his senses. Oberon likewise leapt to his feet and growled at the night, threatening whoever was out there with all the menace he could muster.
I knew already that they would find nothing. Someone was doing this from afar.
“Witches!” I spat as my amulet continued to cook my upper chest. The spell itself had ceased and the red glow was beginning to fade, but the smell of grilled me was still wafting up to my nose. The effort of shutting down the pain and trying to restore my melted skin was quickly draining my reserves, so I struggled to my feet and hobbled gingerly down the steps to the lawn, where I could kick off my sandals and draw power from the earth. I bent over and rested my hands on my knees, intending to let the amulet dangle from my neck away from my skin, but it remained where it was-fused to my flesh. Not good.
“I would agree that you are a victim of witchcraft, but I sense no one nearby but the usual residents,” Leif said as he continued to search for trouble. “However, now that you have delicately broached the subject-”
“Is that what I just did?” I said, tension straining my voice. “Delicately broach the subject of witches? Because I thought I was doing something else entirely, like getting my ass flame-broiled by witches.”
“I beg your pardon. I was flailing about for a segue and utterly failed to find a facile one. My professional reason for visiting you tonight was to tell you that Malina Sokolowski has agreed to your latest terms without revisions or amendments. She’s ready to sign the nonaggression treaty as soon as you are.”
“Yes, well.” I winced as I pulled on the amulet’s silver chain, peeling it off my chest and taking some blackened skin with it. “This kind of puts her nonaggression to the lie, doesn’t it?”
“No.” Leif shook his head. “She would not do this so close to settling a peace between you.”
“Maybe it’s the perfect time to take a shot at me. We haven’t signed anything yet, so that puts her high on my list of suspects.” Malina was the new leader of a coven of Polish witches who called themselves the Sisters of the Three Auroras, and they had claimed the East Valley-the local sobriquet for the cities of Tempe, Mesa, Scottsdale, Chandler, and Gilbert-as their territory since the eighties, long before I arrived. When I rolled into town in the late nineties, they pretty much ignored me; I was only one guy, after all, and I displayed zero aggression and not much in the way of power beyond a talent for herbal remedies. We’d been content to live and let live until our interests diverged: They were interested in helping out a god who wanted to kill me (in exchange for what I originally thought was passage through Tir na nOg, but turned out to be an estate in Mag Mell), and I was interested in staying alive. That was the point where they discovered they had epically underestimated me. There used to be thirteen of them, but six of them died while trying to kill me, and despite all Malina’s noises about doves and olive branches, I still believed she would take any chance she got to avenge them.
“I do hope you will not suggest that I pay her a visit,” Leif said in a stuffy voice.
“No, no, I’ll call on her myself.”
“You relieve me excessively. Your inquisitive neighbor, by the way, is taking an interest in us.”
“You mean Mr. Semerdjian?”
“That’s the one.” I cast my eyes sideways across the street, moving my head only a smidge. I could see one pair of blinds in the house opposite mine parted fractionally wider than the rest, and in the dark space between them no doubt lurked the darker eyes of my poisonous neighbor.
“You don’t, uh, smell anything different about him, do you?” I asked Leif.
“Different in what way?” my attorney asked.
“No whiff of the Fae about him? No whiff of demons?”
Leif chuckled wryly and shook his head. “The world will never plumb the depths of your paranoia.”
“I hope not, because then it might catch me unprepared for something. What does he smell like?”
Leif wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Like a chili dog with mustard and cheap light beer. His blood courses with grease and alcohol.”
‹Wow. I didn’t think he would smell that good,› Oberon said.
“All this sniffing of blood reminds me that I have yet to drink tonight,” Leif said, “so I think I will leave you to your healing and your own personal witch hunt, now that my duty is done. But, ere I go, will you at least consider joining me and others in an alliance against Thor? Dwell on its benefits for a time, as a personal favor to me.”
“All right, as a favor to you,” I said, “I will consider it. But, honestly, Leif, I do not wish to give you any false hope here. Killing Thor is an honor I dream not of.”
Icy glares from vampires are far icier than icy glares from people. And when the vampire giving you an icy glare is originally from Iceland, you are confronted with the archetypal origin of the term, and you shouldn’t be surprised if your core body temperature drops a few degrees. Leif threw one such glare at me for a few seconds, then said quietly, “Are you mocking me? When you quote Shakespeare, it is often to mock someone or to point out their folly.”
‹Whoa, he’s got you there, Atticus,› Oberon said.
“No, Leif, I’m just under a bit of stress here,” I said, gesturing at my sweating face and the still-steaming amulet dangling from my neck.
“I think you are lying.”
“Come on, Leif-”
“Forgive me, but our association has allowed me some small knowledge about the way you think. You quoted Juliet just now. Are you suggesting I am something like Romeo here, Fortune’s fool, perhaps, driven to a rash and ill-considered confrontation with Tybalt out of revenge for Mercutio’s death? And you think perhaps I will end
